Because most philosophies that frown on reproduction don't survive.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Saturday Review, 1952: Do Women Make Good Poets? by Rumer Godden

Up in the attic I found, in a stack of yellowing magazines, a Saturday Review dated January 5, 1952 which featured a cover article by Rumer Godden: Do Women Make Good Poets? (You can read the complete article online; the first two pages are here, and the third here, page 39.)
There are many women writers who write good prose; in the novel especially women are the equals, if not the betters of men. Why have not more of them written good poetry? 
Woman is emancipated now. She can vote, she can own property, she can work -- though not on equal pay; almost all professions are open to her if she can find the means to follow them. Then why does she so seldom follow that of the poet? The woman poet has always been a rarity; she is still rare today, yet all she needs is a few pieces of paper, a pen... and herself. Is it that last that balks her?
She explains her concept of self as hindrance to women poets:
The womanly woman is beset with little [little has been clarified earlier as meaning personal and intimate - MrsDarwin] visions, and the poet needs a large vision. She is attached, and the poet must be detached. A poet must have the power to inhabit space, to float, to disappear, like Ariel, in an essence of himself; most women are too personal to disappear. Fo all woman's emancipation, for all the professions she may follow, she is still trammeled by herself. Ann [sic] Elliot's cry from the heart is still the cry of most women: "We live at home... (even if we are not there, even if we are out following our bent as lawyer, doctor, economist)... our feelings prey upon us." Ann Elliot is still right; it is, and always will be, very difficult for a woman to free herself, to leave the walls and hedges of her home, to escape whole from her feelings. 
But, surely, feeling is the first essential for a poet? It is the first, but only the first. The rest must follow, and too often a woman can travel no further than the range of her own feelings.
Rumer Godden, a gifted novelist, is no tool of the patriarchy, so as much as phrases like "little vision" may cause a knee-jerk reaction, it's worth parsing out what she is saying. To have a personal or intimate vision is not a sign of inferiority or a mark of weakness, nor is "most women are too personal to disappear" a pejorative statement; often those acclaimed for their large vision have lost sight of essential humanity. If women are responsible for much writing that is sentimental, schlocky, or trite -- "as warm, as sensuous, as easy as theatre organ music, syrupy sweet", as Godden says of the "poetesses" who stand in contrast to the serious woman poet -- it is men who tend towards writing that is impersonal, devoid of human characteristics and feeling, whether action-packed or abstract. As it is, many men who pride themselves on their hard rigorous writing would do well to remember that since God is both Love and Truth, any feats of cold logic which despise mercy as weakness and emotion as pathetic are little more than exercises in intellectual sterility. But such men do not tend to write poetry.

Speaking of Christina Rossetti, for whom she has great admiration, Godden says, "In the end, she married only her poetry, she lived with it, keeping herself for it. It is this, this wholeness of gift, this dedication, that marks the true poet; and I think this is the reason that so few women attain this stature."
A woman, leading a woman's life, can never be whole; she is constantly drained in a way that a man is not.To write a poem is an experience into which the whole of the poet must go; in it he must be reborn and one cannot be born oneself if one is continually giving birth. This is what a womanly woman does; she spends her days creating and re-creating...
Godden does not contend that a woman with a family is necessarily cut off from the poetic muse, but she does believe that
The woman poet is more set apart from other women than the male poet from other men. No doubt women despise her because she is not deft. She is often a little inept, clumsy about the practical things of life... The woman poet has nothing to say to other women, except through her poetry. In proportion to her power she eschews herself with male detachment; she must consent to be unwomanly, she must consent to be apart. She may not like her loneliness, particularly when she is young. Perhaps it is that that gives to the best of her work a power of penetration, a pathos, that is like an inner voice, a voice like light rising from the sound of the poem, from the exquisite shell of its texture and shape.
***

The rest of the magazine is a fascinating glimpse of literary life in mid-century America. The whole can be viewed here, ads and all.  Of course there are many worthwhile articles, but I was particularly intrigued by the quality of the personal ads, compelled by space constraints to assume a Twitter-esque brevity:
ENGINEER, young, naive, moderately sincere, slightly weary only trees and mountains, would eagerly correspond carload lots female correspondence. Box 755-J 
SLICK WRITER needs young man assistant 20-28 years, with serious ambition to write, college and research experience preferable but not necessary. Opportunity for expense-paid travel, independent assignments, U.S.-foreign. Complete resume, photo if possible. Immediate. Box 760-J 
IS THERE mature male seeking feminine and interesting correspondence? Box 765-J
MATURE GENTLEMAN interested in music, theatre, cooking, ordinary pleasures, invites correspondence with lady. Box 792-J 
YOUNG MAN, music lover, avocations audio engineering, furniture design; seeks exhange of ideas and suggestions for better design of audio equipment and furniture with young lady of like enthusiams. Box 784-J 
GENTLEMAN, adventurous, bored, will not answer dull letters. Box 795-J 
WOULD VENTURESOME lassie escape boredom corresponding mature but audacious male with widely diversified interests. Box 796-J

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Poetry Corner, Hokey-Pokey edition

Last night, Eleanor came in, struck a pose, and declaimed,

"Who has seen the plunger?
Neither you nor I
But when the toilet overflows
The plunger is nearby."

And so! On that note, Thomas D of Dark Speech Upon the Harp gives you The Hokey-Pokey, in the style of

Thomas Hardy
Edgar Allen Poe
TS Eliot, Roethke, Emily Dickinson, Allan Ginsberg
Wallace Stevens, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Mary Oliver
Celtic Hokey-Pokey: Seamus Heaney, Dylan Thomas, Gerard Manley Hopkins
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Bob the Ape retorts with:

Edgar Lee Masters
Omar Khayyam, in the FitzGerald translation

Actually, you should just read down both their sites for the limericks.


Monday, January 28, 2013

Deor, set to music

After last week's post about the Anglo-Saxon poem, my brother sent me a video of a fellow singing Deor to the accompaniment of a hand-made eight-string lyre. Yes, that sounds like a punchline, but the singing is quite good, and the accompaniment draws you in.



As with so many music videos, I found it easiest to hide the window and listen rather than watch.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg!



John Farrell gives a beautiful recitation, in Old English, of the melancholy Anglo-Saxon poem Deor. The recurring sigh at the end of each stanza is this line:
þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg! 
That passed over, this so may.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

An Angry Note

Found on the floor while I was cleaning up the front bedroom

torchers
torchers
stuped
extra
stuped
spelling
book

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

So Gather 'Round and Harken To My Tale

For my next project, I'm thinking maybe an epic in iambic pentameter about the search for a magic talisman that will bring peace. Here's a sample:



Mother: Hast seen the pacifier, churlish youths?
Thy sister in her crib doth wail and moan, 
And this, her nap time, offers her no sooth
And damn it! Why this ringing of the phone?

Eldest: My mother is enraged, upon my word,
But little do her words my soul aggrieve
For ever doth she rail, and rail unheard,
While we her bairns our plans unfettered weave.

Baby: Wan' POOKIE!!!

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Poetry Corner

The budding poetess, age 9 1/2, has been composing a book of poetry.

Introduction 
This book is the cause
Of the shake
That is said
To make
Your child
Run wild,
So preparations you make
Must awake
The banshee in style.
Give it clocks
And blocks
And your husband's best socks.
So education
Be the agent
Of the cure. 
Malcolm 
Malcolm the dragon started to see
That he had never paid his fee.
But when he tried to pay his fee,
The man in there started to pee:
"You are too scary to pay your fee."
So Malcolm the dragon quite legally
Has never actually paid his fee.

Your interpretation is as good as mine.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Elegaic Legos

Who says the kids can't write any more? Master GTA's Seasons of Legos, in four parts is some of the finest verse I've read in a long time. An excerpt:
Summer
Summer, oh Summer, oh Summer sublime,
For Legos this is a prodigious time,
Prices and shipping go down quite a lot,
Your countenance brightens as you see the jackpot.
h/t to his proud mother and composition teacher

Tuesday, September 07, 2010

Song, by John Donne

Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

Friday, August 03, 2007

Friday poetry (or not)

Eat your heart out, Shakespeare -- PoetBot can say it in four words.

I've been reading John Donne lately, and here's what's been rattling around in my head:

Goe, and catche a falling starre,
  Get with child a mandrake roote,
Tell me, where all past yeares are,
  Or who cleft the Divels foot,
Teach me to heare Mermaides singing,
  Or to keep off envies stinging,
       And find
       What winde
Serves to advance an honest minde.

If thou beest borne to strange sights,
  Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand daies and nights,
  Till age snow white haires on thee,
Thou, when thou retorn'st, wilt tell me
  All strange wonders that befell thee,
      And sweare
      No where
Loves a woman true, and faire.

If thou findst one, let mee know,
  Such a Pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet doe not, I would not goe,
  Though at next doore wee might meet,
Though shee were true, when you met her,
  And last, till you write your letter,
      Yet shee
      Will bee
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Beginning Poetry Memorization

After hearing the umpteenth rendition of "The Circle of Life", which the girls memorized in about two viewings of The Lion King, we decided it was time to start channelling their mental activity into something a bit more productive. We've begun selecting a short poem a week for each girl to work on. Then on Sunday evening we have a formal recitation for Daddy.

You can read about some of the poetry books we consulted and see our selections over at the Humanities Program blog.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Conspiracy Theory

From Julie D's quote journal:

We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.

Phillip Lopate